


Remember Me As I Lived, Not How They Spoke Of Me

by SpiritOfTheReiver



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Historical References, Implied Relationships, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritOfTheReiver/pseuds/SpiritOfTheReiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ancients are returning to the modern world but one of them is desperate to clear their name. But when old enemies meet once more, will the world be drenched in blood or will friendships and something more begin to blossom? And what will happen when England learns that everything he used to know was built on a lie? Can England fix the puzzle when an essential piece is missing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chpt 1 - England Waits

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is the first story I've ever uploaded (and my first ever Hetalia one), so any feedback or comments would be most appreciated, thanks! Any sentences written in italics are character thoughts, but paragraphs written in italics between two brackets are historical information. quite a few shippings in this, mostly one-sided or background romances, but England does have an important shipping to the story, but you'll have to wait to find out who it is~! Feel free to send me any questions if you're unsure of anything I've written, cheers! Hope you all enjoy! :)
> 
> Disclaimer - the characters of Hetalia do not belong to me, they belong to Hidekaz Himaruya

 

   The personification of England was well known for his stuffiness, scathing sarcasm and general tsundere attitude, so it came as a bit of a shock to everyone when England agreed to host a party for the European countries – especially considering _France_ was the one who asked the blond Brit! Really the entire thing had been France’s idea, but the twenty-six-year-old Parisian didn’t want to host any parties at his place for some reason (though it might have to do with a certain Spaniard and Prussian who had found their way into France’s private wine cellar during the last party France had hosted…). Why the party was being carried out was anyone’s guess, but essentially there’d been a week of G8 meetings, followed by a week and a half of World conferences which had left more than a few countries contemplating murder and/or suicide and fast approaching their maximum stress limits, which had a tendency to end with declarations of war being issued. So, naturally, France decided that a party should be thrown, because well, why not? However, the Parisian was more than sick to death of a few _certain_ countries, so France made his point very clear than only the countries of Europe were invited, stressing that by that he meant _proper_ European countries and not strange countries that had somehow or another ended up in the European Union. Now, technically speaking, England did not consider himself to be European by any stretch of the imagination (and his older brothers found the idea of being classed as European countries even more absurd than England did – hell, some of them got flat out insulted by the very suggestion!), so the only reason he was even at the damned party was because it was being held in _his_ country!

 

   England truly was doing his best to pay attention to the current conversation going on around him, though his mind had long since began to wander off. One of his closest friends - the personification of Belgium - had started the conversation, something to do with chocolate and which brand made the best tasting hot chocolate. Canada would’ve loved this conversation if he’d been here. England did atleast contribute to the conversation, he voiced his opinion on Galaxy hot chocolate, which he stated was far too sweet for his tastes. Belgium had agreed with him, chuckling when she commented that her personal favourite was dark, bitter chocolate. Netherlands had simply shrugged and claimed he liked the cheapest brand best, which earned him a gentle scolding from Belgium and a roll of England’s eyes. Luxembourg himself claimed not to be picky on any specific brand, but then Luxembourg was the shiest out of himself, Netherlands and Belgium, not to mention the youngest, so he usually took the middle ground between the two on most ordinary, everyday things. Resisting the urge to click his tongue, the green eyed Brit sipped his champagne, wishing it was ale instead, needing a stiff drink to help him settle his nerves. Using his free hand, he fiddled with his tie, loosening it ever so slightly as he gazed around the large ballroom.    

 

   He was proud of the effort he’d put into decorating the place, but in truth France had done most of it himself because he hijacked everything, claiming the “British had no sense of style”, to which England had looked France up and down, folded his arms over his chest, sneered and said “if that’s what the French consider to be fashionable, then I’m quite happy to have no sense of style.”.

 

   The room was large and spacious, with a high ceiling and glass chandelier hanging from way up high, yet the room was flooded with yellow light, casting everyone’s shadows onto the neutral coloured walls. The high-heels of the women’s shoes clicked against the marble flooring, but no one could hear it over the orchestra that played melodiously in the background but not loud enough to drown out any conversations. But even the lilting tones, as sweet as they were, could do nothing to sooth England’s fraying nerves; he’d had a row with his eldest brother, Scotland, over the phone a few hours ago – mainly because he was refusing to do his share of the paperwork from their boss – and naturally the argument had ended in shouting generally unpleasant (and usually very unnecessary) insults back and forth at one another, until England eventually grew too fed up to care and hung up on his irritating older brother. Though Scotland wasn’t the only sibling to be pissing England off lately – all of his older siblings were suddenly living with him, atleast for a short while, and it was pushing England’s stress levels to a new, unexplored frontier.  

 

   “Hey Arthur?” Belgium lightly touched his arm, giving him a worried look. “Are you alright? You’ve been very quiet lately…”

  

   England blinked in surprise. “Oh, have I? Sorry love, I didn’t realise.”

 

   “I don’t think I’ve seen your big brother tonight either.” Belgium pushed on.

 

   “My big brother…? Which on-! Oh, you mean _that_ one...” England shrugged. “The Republic of Ireland informed me he had a migraine and could not attend tonight. I’ll tell him you were asking after him, shall I?”

 

    Belgium shook her head, still worried about her friend. “No, that’s alright. I just thought it might have something to do with why you seem so…”

 

   “I’m fine Belgium dear, honestly.” England replied, perhaps a tad curtly.

 

   He hadn’t meant to be snappy with Belgium, honestly he hadn’t, but England was lying through his teeth about being fine. He was far, far from it and had been for a few months now, even before his brothers all turned up on his doorstep. He was pretty sure this supposed migraine his Republican brother had was more likely a hangover, which would also explain Scotland’s especially crabby mood today and why neither Wales nor Northern Ireland had been awake before England left to decorate the ballroom – his brothers must have gone out drinking last night and didn’t even bother to tell him they were going out, let alone _invite_ their little brother! The Englishman wasn’t surprised in the least, but that didn’t stop him feeling hurt. He wished Portugal were here, but he’d come down with the flu a week ago and so he’d gone home – the men had nodded, all sage like, claiming they understood how crippling and terrible man-flu could be, to which the women had all rolled their eyes and shook their heads, still adamant in their belief that “man flu” was utter nonsense. 

 

   Deciding he needed fresh air, he meandered his way through the conversing groups of country personifications and headed for a large glass door that lead out onto a large balcony; on the way, he felt a strong slap on his back but when he turned, he came face to face with a smirking Prussia, who’d merely winked at England.

 

   _I don’t even want to know_ , England thought to himself.

 

    Once outside, he deeply breathed in the evening air of London. It was currently mid-June, so the evenings were getting lighter with each passing day and even in England the weather was notably improving – now they had _warm_ rain! But the rain had held off this evening, though England found himself wishing it hadn’t. _A good old fashioned thunder storm would be really nice right about now…!_ Waiting for his date to arrive was really starting to bother England; his date was never late! Well, technically she wasn’t late yet, but the evening sure was dragging on and he wished she’d arrive early, so he’d have someone he could talk/complain to more…freely.  

 

   “You know you have something on your back, right?” Denmark was suddenly behind England, chuckling.

 

   England’s face flushed a deep red, more out of anger than embarrassment, as he snatched the piece of paper off the back of his suit; it read “Sir Stick-up-his-arse” and was written in France’s handwriting.

 

   “That bloody Prussian bastard!” England snapped. “I just knew he put something on my back!”

 

   While England did consider Prussia to be his friend (or at the very least, a good drinking buddy), the albino did have a nasty habit of having a bit of a personality change whenever he was with the other two members of the “Bad Touch Trio”. Granted, he’d apologize to England for any dickish behaviour whenever they drank together, but it still annoyed England. 

 

   The blond Dane tilted his head to the side, hands raised in surrender. “Whoa England calm down! You okay friend? You’ve been in a real weird mood lately and we haven’t been out for drinks in ages!”

 

   “Sorry, I’ve had…a lot on my mind.” England sighed.

 

   England left it at that and Denmark didn’t push the issue– he’d known the Englishman (and his brother Scotland, amusingly) long enough to know not to push a British person to speak about something they don’t want to. Scotland and England were identical in that regard, though neither would admit to that and Denmark may be a bit scatter brained at times, but he wasn’t stupid enough to point out any similarities between the Kirkland siblings. But even so, much like Belgium, he was worried about his English friend, and Norway was worried about him too, so naturally that made Denmark worry all the more.

 

   Suddenly, a flash of movement from inside the ballroom caught the blond Brit’s eye and he made a beeline into the room, startling Denmark, for he’d never seen the Englishman walk so briskly before – hell, he was almost, _almost_ running! Inside! England had always been very particular about _not_ doing that! 

 

   Denmark wasn’t the only one caught off guard by England’s sudden surge of enthusiasm, for as he wove his way through the crowd, he collided with more than just a few of them but he didn’t stop to apologize, simply kept speeding towards the large staircase. Some of the nations followed England’s movements with their eyes and wondered why he suddenly froze at the base of the staircase, one hand holding the railing while he gazed upwards, trying not to sway on the spot. When their gazes travelled to the top of the stairs, they felt their breath hitch in their throats and their eyes widened.

 

   England’s date had arrived.    

 

  

  

   


	2. England Brought A Date!? The Tylwyth Teg of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England's date has arrived and she's certainly no shrinking violet! Maybe France should've kept his mouth shut...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos for chapter one!! It means a lot to me that people actually like my work! In this chapter we find out who England's date is, but I should say she's more of a plus one than someone with any romantic ties to England... 
> 
> Also, this story doesn't take place in any specific year, so yeah...no mentions of Brexit in this story. I'm not gonna start upsetting people because everyone has different views on that subject and I was raised to believe that politics and religion is a wholly private matter!  
> Hope everyone likes this chapter, sorry its so long... I got a bit carried away. 
> 
> ps, Tylwyth Teg is middle Welsh for "Fair Family". Its the welsh equivalent to Ireland's Aos Si, also known as Fae of fairies.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   She stood at the top of the staircase, clad in a pale blue cloak that reached to her ankles, the deep hood, rimmed with what looked to be wolf fur, hid her face and all that could be seen of her was a small hand that held the banister lightly.

 

   While it was not uncommon for countries to bring human dates to such formal (and sometimes informal) gatherings held outside of country related business, most chose not to; bringing human dates to such gatherings often brought up awkward questions, seeing as almost none of the country personifications interacted with humans outside of those they absolutely had to, so many preferred to take other country personifications as their dates to such events. However, every now and again, some countries would be genuinely dating a human, so they’d bring their girlfriend or boyfriend with them and no other country would question it. It wasn’t unusual for bosses of certain countries to order their personification to “show off” a trending celebrity at such gatherings though, so normally film stars, singers, famous novelists, sports stars, any celebrity really, could be found accompanying some of the personifications – Canada was once forced to bring Justin Bieber. In spite of all that, England was notorious for not bringing a human date that wasn’t a celebrity he’d been forced to show off. In fact, as Norway scoured his brain, he realised Arthur Kirkland had _never_ brought an ordinary human date to a country gathering before!!

 

   England smiled nervously at the bottom of the stairs. His date had arrived early after all, just as he’d hoped she would, though really he shouldn’t have been surprised, she’d always been a punctual woman.  He watched her as she descended, never taking his eyes from her figure for even a moment – with each step closer to him she took, his smile grew less and less nervous, more relaxed and happy. When she finally stood before him, their height difference was astounding to the other countries in the room. England’s human date was tall, though that in itself was an understatement; she had to be just under a whole foot taller than England, who himself was five foot, nine inches tall. For a woman, presumably from England though most assuredly from Britain, she was gigantic.

 

   Suddenly, England began to move. The band stopped playing. The lights flickered three times before settling once more. All conversation ended immediately as all turned their eyes on England and his tall date. The green eyed blond had bent his body forward, bowing deeply at the waist, one arm across his midsection, the other still at his side, eyes lowered as he held the bow for several moments, far longer than anyone had ever seen him do before, except for maybe his own Queen. The woman placed a hand under his chin, silently urging him to stand, and so he righted himself, standing tall as he rolled his shoulders, he nodded at her once, before tilting his head to the side, and because his back was to the rest of the room, they did not see his smile, so pure, genuine and sweet that it would’ve melted many a young maidens heart.

 

   Then the woman moved. In one swift and elegant movement, her arms reached for her hood and uncovered her face, letting the hood fall behind her. She lowered herself slowly, reverently, to her knees before England, and had the atmosphere in the ballroom been less tense and peculiar, a few of the countries might have made crass remarks about the position and what it looked like from where they were currently standing. She placed her hands on the cold marble before her, then lowered her head slowly to the ground, until her forehead met with marble, prostrating herself before the young Englishman. She held the position for a few heartbeats, no more than five at the very most. The gesture had everyone in the room boggled and England stuttering and twitchy, uncomfortable once again but not out of embarrassment, more out of unsureness. She then rose slightly, lifting her head and hands, before elevating herself to kneel before him on one leg, her left arm crossed over her body while the left hand, clenched into a fist, rested against her right collar bone, her head bowed slightly, while the palm of her right hand helped her to keep her balance for a moment, steadying herself, before she used it to slowly bring England’s right hand to her face. She kissed the fingernail of England’s middle finger; a silent oath of undying loyalty, of fealty, of allegiance, dating back to the Dark Ages and the Medieval days of old. The Englishman was visibly shaken, but she continued to hold his hand softly as she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his for an instant and a warm and gentle smile broke out on her face. He could not bring himself to do anything less than smile back and he gently took her by the wrists, helping his date to her feet, as they continued to smile at one another. Once she had released his hand, and he let go of her wrists, she ruffled his hair playfully, grinning toothily when England yelped out of protest, though in his heart he did not object to the obvious sign of affection. Once finished with its’ ruffling, her hand cupped his cheek softly. England kisses the palm of her hand and they both chuckled softly, privately, as though they were the only ones in the room and when she removed her cloak, held shut by a heavy bronze broach shaped like a stag’s head, neck and antlers, the country personifications in the room suddenly found their voices once more and the frantic whispering began.

 

   “England brought a date?!” Belgium whispered excitedly to her older brother, Netherlands.

    “Did you know England was seeing someone?” Denmark turned to Norway, who shook his head.

    “Vell, zis is…unusual…” Germany frowned, a pint of beer in his hand.

    “Veh~! She’s so…! Veh~!” Italy sighed dreamily, standing next to Germany.

    “Did you know about zees?!” France whirled around to glare at Spain.

    “Why would I?! I don’t talk to him!” Spain protested.

    “Vell, Portugal is your bruder…” Prussia pointed out.

    “Who I barely talk to!” Spain snapped back in his own defence, though he made a mental note to go all inquisitor on his brother’s ass and interrogate him most thoroughly when he returned home.

 

   With her cloak gone, the true height of the woman came to light. She stood an impressive six foot, seven inches (and a half) tall but her height was far from the only distinguishing feature that made her stand out from the crowd. Clothing wise, she looked unusual; a dress of pastel pink gossamer covered her body, falling to her ankles. While the dress contained no fancy or pretty artwork stitched upon it, a fur pelt was wound around her natural waistline, accompanied by an identical pelt that ran the length of the neck area on her dress. The front of the dress was cut open widely, ending at the lowest point of her breastplate and were it not for the slender strips of hide – no wider than a woman’s pinkie finger – that loosely laced up the front of the dress, there was no doubt a “wardrobe malfunction” involving showing nipples would have occurred. Her feet were adorned with leather sandals, not the type based off Roman or Grecian design, just a simple piece of leather, moulded to the soles of her feet and kept in place by fine leather straps that wound their way up her legs, finishing three quarters of the way up her calf. Her hair caught the eye of more than one country personification in the room.

 

   If France had to describe her hair colour, he’d burst into some long winded poetry that could not possibly do the colour any justice, for though she was undoubtedly a shade of gingered red, she was like all natural red heads, with multiple strands of her hair being ever so slightly different shades of red from the other strands; deep hues, with vivid reds and light oranges with just a dash of a hint of blond, the kind of natural red hair that changed colour depending what season it was and how the light caught it. France felt as though every shade of Autumn, every scrap of colour from the sunset and every warmth and heat from a bonfire had been woven together to create her hair, such was the depth of its colour. Tonight, her hair was braided loosely and fell to her waist. Though a large strand hung over her face, which she seemed to puff at, trying to blow it out of her eyes.

 

   She had pale skin, not creamy like the paler Europeans, not snow-like as the Nordic nations were, but a certain white, pasty colour, charming, in its own way. But then she was a creature of great beauty, though none could tell you why, for she had a bizarre beauty, a sort of look that should not be beautiful, yet it was. The former empires in the room gazed openly at her and felt stirrings of a challenge; something they wanted to possess, to own, to break, yet their heads urged caution, for her body posture was not that of a timid woman, but openly proud, defiant and confident – she seemed to say “challenge me if you dare, but you shall not win”. The less dominant countries in the room went to great lengths to avoid her eyes and dipped their heads slightly, becoming instinctively submissive.  

 

   Denmark could have sworn he knew her from somewhere, that annoying mental itch you get when something’s just on the tip of your tongue…! But no, he couldn’t place her, even if she did remind him of a mermaid, albeit a strange one – the kind that would drag a sailor to his death. Norway had much the same opinion, though he felt she was more akin to a fairy, the nasty ones that carried sharp, pointy objects and played deadly jokes on humans for sport. Indeed, she was an unearthly beauty of sorts. She certainly had no care for anyone else’s thoughts, as her bared arms and cleavage revealed many scars of various sizes up and down the whole length of them, her neck had a few nicks to it and even her face had a small scar along her jawline on the right hand side – scars were far from unusual on nations, but no matter how much they disliked one another in the heat of battle, they never struck the face, for injuries dealt by one nation to another always left a scar; an unwritten rule between nations existed; never attack the face. Most countries went to great lengths to hide their scars, especially the women, but England’s date showed them off, seemingly proud of them! Then there was her athletic build, slightly bulky for a woman, but not to the extent of being unattractive, not to mention the blue tattoos…

 

   England chuckled. “You made quite the entrance my dear. Everyone is no doubt whispering about you, too taken with you to mind their manners.”

 

   The red head sneered. “Tis the hair or my height that provokes their gazing, nothing more.”

 

   “Heh, you are much too humble. Why not admit you are the most beautiful creature in the room?” England shook his head, then slid his suit jacket off, handing it and the woman’s cloak to an attendant, before he loosened his tie and unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons.

 

   “That’s better.” The woman smirked at England.

   “I agree.” England shot back, his confidence fully reinstated.

 

 

   An hour later, the room was still buzzing with excitement and gossip, though no one had approached England and his date, who was noticeably older than him. She was supposed to be in her early fifties, but clearly someone forgot to tell her face and body that because she seemed to have stopped aging at her thirties…

 

   England suddenly felt a tremor up his spine. “Please excuse me for a brief moment poppet, I’ll be with you again soon.”

 

   His date watched him leave as he made his way casually – he didn’t want his date to panic – to the men’s’ toilets.

 

   Meanwhile, the red haired woman caught the tail end of a conversation going on between France and Spain and she felt her hackles rise. Stalking over to the pair, she found them to be in the middle of a game of pool, though what a pool table was doing in the corner of a ball room was beyond her, even if it did make her mind wonder as to where a dart board might be located in the room…

 

   “I advise you to rethink that last remark.” The woman spoke firmly, directly to France.

   “Oh...uh…” France had been caught off guard, and more importantly, caught bitching about England.    

   “Be you deaf or dumb boy?” The woman frowned. “I bid you to retract your statement.”

   “Non…?” France had answered instinctively, but nervously.

 

   The woman seemed to regard the Frenchman for a few moments, before smirking. She had good teeth, France noted, but her canines were unusual, not narrow and sharp like a vampire, instead they were slightly wider than a normal human’s, slightly longer too and from a small cut on her bottom lip France gathered the teeth must catch her lip every now and again. They looked a bit like the canines of a dog, or as close as a human’s tooth could get to it.

 

   “Permit me to make a challenge for you then.” She pressed France.

   “Of course, madam.”

   “I wager I can best you at that.” She waved a hand towards the pool table. “Should I be victorious; you will apologise – publicly – to Arthur.”

   “And if I win…?”  France tipped his head to the side, a lewd smile tugging at his lips – France always was a sucker for a woman. Any woman.

   “What would you wish for, should you win?” She replied, blankly.

 

   The Frenchman pondered this for but a moment. “A dance with you, my lady.”

 

   “…A dance? Tis a wonder to me that you should choose so simple a thing, but I shall concede to it.”

 

   And so the game began; in no time at all, several countries had caught wind of the wager and had gathered around the pool table, curious to see the outcome. They were all boggled by her when she rubbed the blue chalk (normally reserved for the tip of the que) into the palms of her hands before she took up a que and twirled it, testing its weight. _Short_ , she thought to herself, _but it will have to do_.

 

   Naturally, the audience questioned the woman at every opportunity, but they received only vague answers that often revealed very little and by the time the match was half way through, they still did not know her name or where she was from or how she’d met England. But France was obviously winning.

 

   “Come now madam,” France was feeling generous, if not cocky.  “Clearly zee one with zee upper hand here is Moi. But I am not a cruel man, so why don’t we just call zees a draw and end it there, no?”

 

   The red head took great offence to that. “Never! Once I have challenged a man, I see it through to the end, even if I am faring poorly.” Then she sneered suddenly. “That said, I would not object to a…change…in our little wager.”

 

   Her voice was strange too, a bit low in pitch for a woman, but still retaining a feminine lilt to it. She spoke good English but spoke in an old fashioned sort of way that threw people off and she didn’t seem to have just one accent for it seemed to change repeatedly and it wasn’t any English or any other British accent France could place.

 

   “As you wish.” France bowed slightly. “Ladies first.”

   “Should I be the one to clasp victory, you will not only apologize to Arthur but you shall also serve him for the duration of this evening. Fetch his drinks and wait on him, hand and foot.”

 

   France’s smile faltered then. “Those are ‘arsh terms…But I accept.” The audience stirred and twittered at that. “Then, should I win, you shall not only dance with moi, but also attend an evening meal in Paris with me. Furthermore, Arthur shall be my slave for zee evening.”

 

   “I best start taking this seriously then.” The woman smirked, but she seemed visibly shaken by the word “slave” …

 

   France quickly lost his swagger when she began to beat him, starting to look more and more like a kicked dog. By the end of the game, she’d won and France fell to his knees, distraught because now he had to serve England all night. _God must hate me because I’m beautiful_ , France inwardly wept.

 

   “You must care deeply for Arthur to play so seriously.” Belgium pointed out.

   “I love him more than anything. He is my heart’s delight.” The red head smiled fondly, green eyes soft and sweet. “That being said…He has yet to return…”

   “He’s still in the toilets?” Belgium gasped. “I’d go get him for you but…girls can’t go in there! It’s scary! Who knows what’s in men’s toilets!!” She shivered.

   “…If you don’t know what’s in there…how can you be afraid of it?” The red head replied, before sighing. “I shall fetch him myself then.”

 

   The women personifications admired the woman’s bravery, but advised her strongly against it; Lichtenstein had once been told firmly by Switzerland that under no circumstances was she to ever step foot into the men’s’ toilets, lest she come across trouser snakes – and though Lichtenstein (in all her naivety and innocence) had no idea what such a thing was, she was adamant about not wanting to meet such a…creature. She’d lived a rather sheltered life, bless her. Eventually, Luxembourg stepped forward and volunteered himself for the task.

 

   “You have my thanks, young man.” England’s date nodded.

 

   Back in the men’s toilets, England splashed his face with cold water one more time, hoping it would help. He could feel his enchantment slipping and the last thing he wanted was for his date – or anyone else, really – to see him without it. Taking a gamble, England dropped the enchantment altogether and stared at his reflection, critically.  The spell he’d used was complicated, but it had been going well for the past few weeks – with the spell gone, he watched as his picture perfect complexion fell away to reveal dark bags around his blood-shot eyes, skin slightly grey and his face noticeably thinner than was the norm. His hand shook as he turned the cold tap off. He sighed and placed his head against the glass mirror, cooling his temple blissfully. After a moment, he recast the enchantment and his fair looks returned. It was getting harder to keep the spell going, he knew. Eventually, everyone would start to notice…

 

   While Luxembourg was away fetching England (which took a while, because there were more than one set of toilets), the red head played a few more rounds of pool, thrashing Spain, soundly defeating Prussia (which was, by his own admission, _not_ awesome!) and smashing Denmark to pieces. Yet she worried about England and it showed.

 

   “Have you known him long, then?” Denmark asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

   “Longer than any other.” Came her reply.

   “You may think so, madam,” France cut in, “but I assure you, I have known Anglais for longer.”

   “No,” she replied. “you haven’t.”

 

   By the time she’d just finished besting Sweden at pool - after the Swede had put up a pretty good fight -  Luxembourg had found England and was leading him back to his date. Every country in the room had gathered around the pool table by this point. Someone clapped their hands behind her, so the red head turned and came face to face with a blond man, who was a few inches taller than her.

 

   “Well met.” The blond man spoke.

  

   The red head smirked, placing the butt of the que on the ground. “A warm welcome to you, Germania.”

 

   “I am pleased with that welcome. Though I see my nephew France has caused some offence…?” Germania scowled at France, who was the son of Gaul which made him Germania’s nephew. 

 

   “Ahh…so this is Gaul and Rome’s whelp. I thought as much. Alas, he and I have already discussed the offence and settled it, private like.”  

   “As you wish. I will say I am glad you see you here, though I had not heard of your return.” Germania sported what was a rare smile for him.

   “Likewise, Germania. I had not heard you were around either.”

 

   The two smiled at one another, confusing all the younger nations greatly, before Germania and the woman seemed to move at the same time, reacting to some silent signal. They used their right hand to grab the other’s right wrist, before bowing their heads together, their foreheads resting lightly against one another. A warm welcome between two warriors.

 

   “Truly, it brings me great joy to see you once more, friend.” The red head mumbled.

   “And I, you.” He pulled away from her, chuckling. “You defeated my son Prussia soundly enough.”

   “Well, you know me.” The red head chuckled in turn. “If it has a shaft, I can work it with practiced ease.”

 

   Prussia had been about to make a crass joke out of that, but Germania caught him half way and cuffed the albino around the back of his head, roughly.

 

   Germania rolled his eyes. “I’d expect no less from you, Britannia.”  

  


	3. The Boar, The Eagle and The Bear Reunite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britannia and Germania are back from the dead!! But so is someone else. Someone neither of them wanted to see.

****

   “That is not my name...” Britannia deeply sighed, before letting the matter slide.

 

   Britannia smirked at Germania. There were few ancient nations that Britannia had interacted with during her time on Earth (and in the Afterlife), but even so she liked even fewer of them and the number of them she’d genuinely consider to be her friends was alarmingly small – in fact, she could count them on one hand, especially if she ruled out her two brothers… Either way, Germania was one of those close friends and was perhaps even a best friend of sorts, though they hadn’t met officially until they’d both died. Amusingly, their friendship had first been struck up over drinks while complaining to one another about a _certain_ ancient golden boy…

 

   Now, to say the countries of Europe were taken aback by this sudden revelation would have been the understatement of the century. Or maybe the millennium, come to think of it. Everyone, or atleast the vast majority of them, had heard of the infamous Britannia; famed for her savagery, her beastliness, her uncivilized ways!  (…And she was the mother of all the British Isles siblings, which said a lot about her personality). But of course, all that everyone knew of Britannia had been gossip and reports spread by Rome and Hella (Ancient Greece), who both had a severe axe to grind with Britannia.

 

   Of course, if the European countries had bothered to look past the scars and blue tattoos – which should have been a dead giveaway themselves – they’d have noticed her thick eyebrows (not as thick as England’s but slightly thicker than an average woman’s), her green eyes that contained different shades of green throughout, her high-set cheekbones that had a light dusting of small, light brown freckles on them that ran over the bridge of her nose too (both of her Irish sons had inherited those), the air of dignity and severe pride about her (Wales and Scotland respectively had nothing on their mothers’ pride or dignity, it must be said). The younger countries did not know it yet, but Britannia’s personality was very complex, much like that of all of her sons, but simply put, she was like the personifications of England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland all thrown together to create one person, then given a healthy dose of caution and easy-going playfulness to top it off. Even so, she was far more extreme than her sons in most things; exactly why none of her sons had ever picked a fight with their mother, or any serious arguments that didn’t end in laughter and general merriment. Britannia was the second eldest of all the Kirklands in the Kirkland family, - having both an older and younger brother, though she looked younger than both of them – she was the wisest and the fairest. And the loudest/scariest when angered. She was also the only woman in the Kirkland family, which explained a lot about her, really.

 

   “You’re England’s mother?!” Denmark gawped at her.

 

   Britannia stared at the Dane for a moment, before something seemed to click into place inside her head. “Well now young Denmark, haven’t you grown.”

   “Y-y-you know me?!” The poor Dane was doing his best to look tough, but his shaking knees rather ruined the effect.

 

   “Come now, I hardly look any different from when we last met. Granted, you were much younger then and your father was invading my land.” She chuckled at that, as if the thought of invasion was amusing to her.

 

   England glanced at his mother, greatly confused now. _What…? But I thought mum died during Rome’s invasion…! I don’t have any memories of her after that at all…!!_ Instinctively, his uneasiness had him sliding up alongside his mother, a habit left over from his childhood and she must have sensed his change in mood, for she ruffled his hair gently, an arm coming around his shoulder to tug him closer to her. She did not know what bothered her son all of a sudden, but she was his mother and she’d make him feel at peace and safe in this place.

 

   “Germania, may I proudly present my youngest son, Arthur, the embodiment of England, formerly of Albion. Arthur, this is Germania, a…friend…of mine.”

   “I consider it a great honour, to be classed as a friend to you, Britannia.” Germania seemed surprised at first, but then he relaxed. “May I consider you likewise?”

   “I should be most honoured and it brings me great joy to hear you say so.”

 

   Now Germania looked at England. “He is indeed your son. The resemblance is striking.”

 

   Britannia laughed openly and care free, not a typical woman’s laugh, with her head thrown back, small crinkles by the sides of her eyes and shoulders shaking, it sounded mirthful and loud, but England was left speechless by so simple a statement, as were all the other non-ancient personifications; in truth, England did not look too similar to his mother for he lacked her freckles and auburn hair that made her stand out and he lacked her great height too, but he had her body build, lithe with hidden muscle like a sprinter or a swimmer. It bothered him that he did not look much like his mother yet here Germania stood announcing otherwise – perhaps the ancients could see things beyond physical appearances? Maybe their old eyes saw things younger eyes did not? He suddenly felt full of pride and he puffed his chest out, standing up straighter, trying to look noble and regal in front of his mother whom he respected, adored and looked up to more than any other.  

 

   “And may I have the…honour…of introducing my sons, Gilbert and Ludwig.”

 

   Germania’s sons – the two that still lived, rather – were sweating by now. As were the other countries gathered around; Britannia cut a fearsome figure and even Germany wanted to stay out of whatever was going on between his father and England’s mother. Ancients had weird ways of interacting with one another and it nearly always involved bloodshed, sharp objects and conversations that no modern day person could understand.

 

   Germania placed his large hands on his sons’ shoulders, pushing them slightly towards Britannia with a firm grip that screamed “behave Prussia and don’t let me down Germany”. Now they really started to sweat and their legs shook slightly, hairs on the back of their necks prickling. Prussia laughed nervously, gulped, then nodded at Britannia. Germany just nodded.

 

   “Gilbert is the embodiment of Prussia while Ludwig is the embodiment of Germany.”

   “Germany, is it? Formerly…?”

   “Yes.” Germania replied quickly and the two left _that_ particular point at that.

 

   Britannia nodded at the Germanic brothers, kindly. “Well met, lads. But where are Saxony and…” She trailed off when she saw a flicker of something in Germania’s eyes.

 

   The red head winced, before placing a hand on Germania’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly, sending him a genuinely sympathetic look. “You have my greatest sympathies, the three of you. Truly you do. If I can ever be of any help…”

 

   Germania nodded at her kindly and they dropped the issue as Britannia moved her hand away. They looked at one another for a moment as if unsure how to continue. Their hands twitched, missing the comfort they used to take from holding their weapons. Britannia recovered first and she smiled again.

 

   “Are there more of…us…returned to this world?”

 

   Germania frowned for a moment. “Well…besides you and myself…there is one other, but…oh you’re not going to like it…”

 

   “You seem very sure of that.” Britannia frowned. “It is a wonder to me, that you would think I’d take so badly to another ancient being alive once more. Gaul, Iberia and I have…well…reconciled, if you like. Not the best of comrades, I’ll grant you that, but better than we were. And Scandia is…yes, well. Honestly Germania I am not a child and it’s not as though we’re discussing the return of Rome or somethi-!”

 

   “Germania! I didn’t know you were coming here! Why didn’t you say so?!” A cheery voice called out as someone approached the two ancients from a little way off and Germania suddenly wished he was back in the Afterlife. “And I see you’re already chatting up the pretty ladies~! That’s not like you! You old dog, you! I knew you still had it in you!! So who’s the lucky lady? If she’s pretty, I can’t promise I won’t steal her for myself~!”   

 

   The fine hairs on Britannia’s arms bristled while those on her neck stood on end and her former smile split into a tooth-baring snarl. She spun around so suddenly that everyone had to quickly duck to avoid being smacked in the face by her impressively long braid. As she turned, Britannia used one of her arms to move England behind her slightly – tucking him safely away.  She ignored the sudden sharp pains that flooded up her spine and blossomed in her gut. Rome had a very different reaction, but it was exactly the same as Romano’s reaction to France being anywhere near him.

 

   “Rome…!!” Britannia snarled the other ancient’s name as her grip tightened on the pool que, holding it as one would wield a spear.  

 

   Rome’s blood ran cold and he froze on the spot, breaking out in a cold sweat. He shrieked; “B-BRITANNIA?!”.

  


End file.
